


Turning in Revolution

by chaineddove



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders shows up at Weisshaupt, looking for an old friend and a place to hide. Things don't quite go as planned.  Bethany tries and fails to keep her past out of her present.  Political intrigue rears its ugly head.  Hawke and Isabela take a sabbatical from piracy and get involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Neither Friend nor Foe

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of something that promises to be terribly epic, ispired by the Deep Roads, my endless fixation on Tragic Love that Cannot Be, and an array of some truly depressing music. I have no clue how long this will get, honestly. The rating will probably rise. There may or may not be OT3, but at this point the story is driving itself so I promise nothing except that we will all see when we get there (wherever there is).
> 
>  _"You're neither friend nor foe  
>  Though I can't seem to let you go."_  
> -Sara Bareilles, "Gravity"

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shout and bring the entire garrison down on you.”

“I saved your life.” The night air is cold through the open window, and she feels gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. She shivers and pulls the blanket around her shoulders as she rises; her light nightshirt is no match for autumn in the Anderfels. She watches him warily, but he makes no move to approach. He looks tired and bedraggled and painfully thin, and his haggard face has aged since last she saw him. His voice is raw and his eyes seem to have lost their light, and she thinks it would be the simplest thing in the world to take him down herself, without any outside assistance, but at his words, she pauses, then lets her hand drop away from her staff, leaving it propped against the nightstand. Because he speaks the truth. Because things are not as simple as she would like them to be.

“What are you doing here, Anders?” she asks in a low voice.

He gives her the ghost of a smile, an expression that changes his face – almost – to that of the man she thought she knew, long ago. “Losing my way, it seems. I wasn’t trying to – that is, I didn’t intend – I was looking for Nathaniel Howe,” he finally manages. “I thought this was his room.”

She feels unexpectedly sorry for him as he stammers in his hoarse voice, and the pity is warring with the anger she has spent the last several years cultivating. The pity wins out, as it too often does with her. “You are not mistaken, but you have poor timing; he is on patrol and will not return until the end of the week, if then.” The patrol schedule is one thing, but the darkspawn care little for it; often enough a week’s expedition can turn into a month in this wasteland.

“But why...” He trails off and she feels, absurdly, the color flooding her cheeks as he looks at her. She has assumed she is past such discomfort. Women in the Wardens are rare enough, and here at Weisshaupt they are outnumbered ten to one; none sleep alone unless they wish it. The nights are cold, and Nathaniel is kind; she considers herself lucky, in a way, because such a character trait here is a rarity in and of itself. But perhaps because this man is a relic of her past, she feels almost as though she ought to explain herself as understanding dawns on his face. He looks almost as uncomfortable as she feels as he says, “Oh, I see.”

“It isn’t any of your concern,” she says sharply in an effort to hide her rising embarrassment. She feels almost as though she is explaining herself to her sister; somehow, she doesn’t think that _the nights are cold and he is kind_ would be considered justification enough for her arrangement. But of course, he is not her sister; he is in fact the reason that she will likely never have to explain anything to her sister, perhaps not ever again.

“No,” he says. “You are right, of course. I…” It is oddly satisfying to watch him flounder, although she has sworn to herself time and again that she has left all of this in the past. She is not that girl anymore, and perhaps he has never at all been the man she thought he was, when she was young and impressionable. And even so, she feels a twinge, watching him try to move past the revelation until at last he tells her softly, “It _is_ good to see you, Bethany. You are looking well.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she responds. “On both counts.”

“I deserve that, I suppose,” he says, then adds with another half-smile, “You sound like your sister.”

She scowls at that; it is easier, in that moment, to be angry and allow the anger to push aside everything else. “Do I?”

“Yes,” he says. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he ventures, “How is – ?”

“I don’t know,” she snaps bitterly. It has been months since the last letter. They are not always regular; they are always vague. _Beastly hot here this summer, bet you’re enjoying the cool weather. Don’t let them work you too hard_. No location, no return address. The smell of the sea and spices and freedom folded into the parchment. “I am not allowed to know.” As it is, she has been transferred here, out of the rush of political unrest, for the simple crime of being a Hawke. Her sister is popular with all of the wrong people, and in some places being a Warden is not protection enough.

He looks down, breaking from her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, you ought to be,” she mutters. He looks so like a kicked, starved dog that she cannot help adding, “She wouldn’t die if someone killed her. She isn’t the one you should worry about, I would think.” Despite her worsening nightmares, she has to keep believing this. If her sister hasn’t written, it is because it is not safe to do so; nothing could have happened to her. Her sister is capable of taking on the world.

“I am not known for being sensible,” he quips, and she finds that despite her frustration, she has to stifle an incredulous giggle at the gross understatement.

“Nor am I, it seems,” she murmurs, then walks over to close the window, carefully not looking at him. She has not called for assistance and it is too late to do so now. She has the sense of once again being an accomplice to something she cannot control. “Why did you come? I doubt it is to pick up your vigil again, else you’d have gone to the commander. They may even have taken you; they need men badly enough.”

“No,” he agrees. “That isn’t why I came.” She wants to ask him, very much, how he is able to walk away, knowing what she now knows, feeling what she feels. He must share her nightmares. It has been nearly a decade since she first came into this calling, and although it is often terrible, she cannot imagine leaving it behind. It has become a part of her. Before she can find the words to ask, he sways, gripping the windowsill in an obvious effort to stay upright. “I don’t suppose they’ve moved the larder since I was last here?” he asks faintly.

She shakes her head disparagingly. “Oh, I see. Hungry work, isn’t it, running for one’s life? I’ve some experience with it myself. Stay,” she tells him, as if he really is a starving dog; certainly she thinks her sister’s Mabari likely has more sense, and thinking of him this way is considerably less uncomfortable than the alternative. “I will fetch some bread.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, I –”

“You are not in a position to argue,” she cuts him off. “Do you think anyone in this place doesn’t sleep lightly?” He does not respond as she sets the blanket back on the bed and takes a robe from the hook at the back of the door, trying not to feel self-conscious as she turns her back on him and slips it over her nightshirt, belting it tightly, though it is flimsy armor. “Besides, Cook may be about. He is decent enough, and I’ve a way with him.”

“You’ve always had a way,” he says, very softly.

Her back is still to him, so he cannot see the pain flit over her features. By the time she turns back, she has composed herself. “Don’t,” she says firmly. “Don’t you _dare_. I shall feed you, because I cannot bear to see any living thing go hungry. And then you will go, and Maker protect you if he sees fit to do so. You say you saved my life; I will now return the favor. I do not want a debt between us.”

He is silent as she walks from the room and shuts the door. She leans back against the wood for a moment, allowing herself a few precious instants to regain her equilibrium. Then she shakes her head, sighs, and slips across the hall and down to the main floor of the keep.

They do not often bother locking the larder in Weisshaupt. Despite the desolate landscape, there is usually food enough regardless of the season, for the denizens of nearby villages show their appreciation as they can with donations of eggs and cheese and flour, and there is a small plot in the back to grow herbs and hardy vegetables, tended by those who have the time and inclination. Besides, the King seems to feel that it is his royal duty to keep the Wardens comfortable – or maybe it is the Warden commanders who demand it, for it is certain that they are the true power in this rocky kingdom, not the man who sits on the throne – so there are supply wagons twice a month laden with meat and wine, sugar and fruit, and any number of other luxuries. There are rules, of course, and even rations if a particular winter is hard enough, but rules can always be bent and Cook can usually be counted on to be sympathetic.

All of this is fortunate, for the recruits are ravenously hungry at all hours. It is actually surprising as she enters the cavernous kitchen and heads for the larder door that she has the place to herself; she recalls that the few hours before dawn are especially difficult for someone new to the taint, and food is one of the few comforts readily available to dispel the dark and the cold. If the sleepy scullion in the corner by the fire is surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it; with a yawn and an “Evenin’ m’lady,” he is back to sleep on his pallet by the banked fire.

In the pantry, she quickly puts together a plate of bread, cheese, and two wizened apples. She piles the food as high as she can, then heads back toward the stairs on silent feet. She tries very hard to look like she is not up to anything suspicious, and tries just as hard not to think about what she is, in fact, doing. The way back up the stairs seems to take forever, and she cannot help thinking that it would be better all around if he were simply gone when she arrives – although such an eventuality seems unlikely, considering the state he is in. It is a miracle that he got up to the third story at all.

With this in mind, she is not truly surprised to discover, upon her return, that he is slumped against the wall, asleep. She sets the plate down on the writing desk and stands over him for a moment, wondering what she is meant to do now. She cannot find it in her heart to wake him, for he looks utterly exhausted, and outside the window it has begun to snow. With a sigh, she turns and leaves once again, for there is no question of her returning to bed while he is present. In the library, such as it is, she lights a fire, then wedges herself into a threadbare armchair in the corner and closes her eyes.

The dream, or perhaps the memory, comes with an unexpected poignancy: they are both so young, she still a child in the body of a young woman, her sister barely older than that. She is shelling peas in Gamlen’s ratty kitchen, her hands moving swiftly through the familiar chore, eyes downcast. A cup of tea is set before her; when she looks up, her sister is smiling down at her, hip propped against the side of the table. _Take a break._

 _Someone has to do this_ , she says with a sigh, _and it will not be Uncle, though he will complain the loudest if there is no dinner._

 _I’ll take over while you drink it,_ her sister promises.

She sighs, _No, I’d really rather you didn’t. But I’ll rest a moment._ With a nervous shrug, she takes the proffered cup and sips, nearly burning off her tongue in the process. It is too bitter; her sister has a habit of scalding the tea leaves. It is probably fortunate that she is rarely called upon to be domestic, because her efforts at domesticity invariably end in disaster. To be fair, if it were not for her sister, it is very likely none of them would eat at all, so Bethany feels the least she can do is make some soup without complaining about it. _Thanks,_ she says, trying to be nonchalant, but her heart is pounding in her throat as though something terrible or wonderful is about to happen.

 _Something’s eating at you,_ her sister says without preamble. _Do you want to talk about it?_

 _No,_ she replies shortly.

 _Too bad, since that means I have to nag you until you change your mind. Let me guess: is it Anders?_

She jerks, spilling a couple of drops of tea on her hand, hissing as they burn. _I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,_ she says, as primly as possible, dabbing at her hand with her apron. _Your personal life is not my concern._

 _Feeling prickly, aren’t we? The two of you are exactly alike that way, you know. You take everything too seriously._

 _Someone has to,_ she responds, failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice. _You never do._

 _I am fond of Anders,_ her sister muses. _It is difficult not to be. I am fonder of you._

 _He looks at you,_ she says at last. _When you are not paying attention. Sometimes when you **are** paying attention._

 _He’ll get over it soon enough,_ her sister says with a shrug. _I am not intending to look back._

 _Don’t stop yourself on my account,_ she says softly. _You deserve to be happy._

 _So do you._ They are both silent for a moment. She blows on her tea, trying to cool it, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. She has never resented her sister the way Carver did, when he was alive; she has always been her hero, and it is difficult to have these conflicting feelings now. They make her feel like a terrible person. She doesn’t want to be angry and jealous, but she cannot seem to help it. _Listen, have I ever lied to you?_

 _No,_ she admits. _Never, unless you count the time you told me I had spiders in my hair._

 _I was ten,_ her sister points out with a laugh. _I don’t think it counts, although that little dance you did, trying to get them off…._

 _It still isn’t funny._ But she giggles.

 _So,_ her sister continues, _as someone who has never lied to you: your way is clear. I lack your… softness, I suppose, for birds with broken wings and motherless kittens. Stop tying yourself into knots over it, and take what you want. And if he hurts you, let me know – I’ll chop off his arms, or maybe something more sensitive._

She cannot help it; she laughs, and when she has stopped laughing, she feels very silly. _You have been spending entirely too much time with Isabela._

The smile on her sister’s face is unexpectedly sly as she says, _Yes, well, it isn’t my love life we’re discussing, is it?_

 _No, it – wait, what do you mean by that?_ But her sister is already gone, leaving her alone with unanswered questions and the unfinished peas.

She feels the echo of it still, as she wakes shivering in the library, an ache she thought she banished years ago. She hurries upstairs in the pearly light of the snowy morning, unable to dispel a sense of urgency, but she finds the room and the plate both empty. She looks out the window, but it is a long way down, and there are no tracks in the fresh snow.


	2. An Unexpected Accounting of Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of Nathaniel, a closer look into Bethany's relationship with him, and a confrontation... of a sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's very interesting for me, working with these two very different relationships. Nathaniel and Anders' friendship is another factor,l and I only hope I am not making a mess so convoluted that I am unable to clear it up at the end.
> 
>  _"It's not regret, just an unexpected accounting of debts  
>  Only now called,  
> It's not regret, just remembrance is all, of how close we had come,  
> The war almost won..."_  
> -Vienna Teng, "Kansas"

Nathaniel’s patrol returns as scheduled, and everyone in the keep spills out into the purple twilight to meet them. A homecoming at Weisshaupt is always a noisy, jolly affair, quite unlike the usual somber mood of the place, perhaps because all of them understand that the odds cannot be bested forever. Sooner or later, there will be a patrol that does not return. Death cannot be outwitted, and each of them is marked by this knowledge just as surely as the bodies in the communal grave behind the keep, filled with the remains of hundreds of failed Joinings.

Generally, she enjoys working with the new members of the order; she has a gift for smoothing ruffled feathers and calming frayed nerves, and the escapees of various Circles who have made their way to them recently have no shortage of either. But she has been distracted and irritable all week, and it is the new recruits who have suffered for it. She has not slept well, plagued alternatively by nightmares and memories of a happier time, and her mind is so muddled that she cannot honestly say which of these is worse. She has not seen Anders since that first night, but she has been leaving food out for him. It is a compulsion, like feeding a stray; she has graduated from birds with broken wings and motherless kittens to renegade apostates with dark pasts and tragic eyes.

She is out of sorts and unable to concentrate, jumping at shadows and struggling for the mental clarity required for spellwork. The recruits are likely as grateful as she is to hear the commotion outside, for that means an end to the lesson as all of them rush out to meet those who have returned. The band of twelve is all accounted for – and she does count them, twice, to make certain – and in high spirits. From the look of things, there has been at least one major skirmish, but everyone has come through it with minor injuries aside from Syrinn, one of the elven mages, who looks pale and wan, as though he has lost a great deal of blood. But even he is beaming cheerfully, supported between Nathaniel and one of the other men as they stumble into the courtyard of the keep.

When she meets Nathaniel’s gaze over the heads of the crowd and he smiles at her, she feels at peace for the first time in days. She does not lift her hem and run through the snow to him, for that is not their way, but when he approaches the steps and opens his arms to her, she rests her head against his chest gratefully, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, sweat, pine, and blood, the smell which to her has come to mean “home.”

He rests his chin on her head, and when she looks up at him at last, he places a gentle kiss on her forehead and asks, “Are you unwell?”

He knows her too well, she thinks, but then, they have been lovers for over seven years; it is hardly a surprise. “I am better now,” she tells him, and it is not untrue. “Maker, but I am glad to see you.”

“And I, you,” he tells her. He does not pry. Nathaniel never pries, never asks uncomfortable questions, never forces her to confront the things lurking in the dark corners of her own mind. He is content to hold her, and for that she has always been profoundly grateful.

“We should speak later,” she says, because she has not once thought of keeping the nocturnal visit from him. But regardless of the camaraderie that exists between men and women who face death together, she does not think it altogether wise to bring it up in front of so many people. Anders has enemies, perhaps especially among the order, for not only has he abandoned his vigil, he has also placed them in a thoroughly uncomfortable situation. An uncomfortable warden is never a pleasant experience for anyone; only a madwoman would goad this crowd, and she may be thoroughly foolish, but she is not mad yet. “Come in out of the cold,” she says, thinking that later will come soon enough. He releases her and she takes his hand to draw him into the brightly lit keep.

There is a great deal of wine and ale consumed that night, and even she indulges in a goblet filled to the brim with a dark, musky red. The seal on the bottle proclaims that it has come from Starkhaven. She decides not to think about it, and drinks it anyway. In the firelight, her hip pressed against Nathaniel’s on the narrow bench, she feels lightheaded and almost – but not quite – happy. She does not think, if she is honest, that she has experienced happiness more than a handful of times since leaving Kirkwall, and no amount of wine is likely to change that fact. Still, she drinks it, and chats merrily with those who engage her in conversation, and makes the flames in the enormous fireplace dance like griffons and dragons locked in battle.

It is nearly dawn when they make their way upstairs, and when the door is closed behind them and Nathaniel reaches for her, she comes to him gladly, unbuckling the fastenings of his leather breastplate with practiced hands, taking comfort from the feeling of warm skin under her fingers and the sense of being alive.

***

She wakes late to the unexpected feel of sunlight on her skin, and blinks bleary eyes to squint at the window, which is unexpectedly bright. They rarely see the sun here, especially this time of year. Although her head feels unpleasantly wooly – the certain result of a little too much wine – she stretches and rises from the bed, going to the window, though she is still half-asleep, to collect the empty plate. Except, of course, there is no empty plate, and it is only then that she realizes she didn’t think to bring one up the night before.

It is an effort not to run downstairs in a panic in nothing but her shift, more of an effort to remember that she owes him nothing, that any debt between them has surely been paid now. Still, the next breath she takes in is unsteady, and she lets it out in an equally unsteady sigh. Nathaniel is awake and regarding her quizzically when she turns around. He pats the blanket next to him, but instead of taking the invitation, she paces to the door. She cannot sit still; her nerves are jangling. Now that it has come to it, she doesn’t know how to explain. “You ought to know,” she says, pacing back to the window from the door. “Anders was here, looking for you, a few nights ago.”

His expression is carefully neutral as he mulls this over. Finally, he says, “I see.”

“He is still around, somewhere,” she continues, bowing her head, feeling like a penitent child confessing her sins. “I have not seen him these last few days but I – I have been leaving food for him. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks. I could not simply…” She trails off.

“I see,” he says again. For a few moments, he says nothing at all. Usually, she finds his long silences comfortable; this one is like the prickle of needles against her skin. “You are disquieted.”

“Yes,” she agrees. It is an understatement for what she is – disquieted and distressed and disheartened and utterly out of kilter. She wants to tell him, _I wish I could forgive him and yet I also wish I had the strength to keep myself from forgiving him. I wish I could forget any of this ever happened. I wish I could forget ever meeting him._ But she does not say any of these things. “I know what he did, and I know that it was not right. I know, but…”

“But neither do you think that he was entirely wrong.” His face is inscrutable as she examines it, searching for answers.

“I don’t know what I think,” she says, the only honest answer she can give. “He killed many people who did not deserve to die, but he was not, I think, entirely himself at the time. And my sister, she… ” He is still watching her, and she shakes her head in frustration; she cannot explain, after all. “Perhaps there can be no peaceful solution,” she murmurs finally.

“Does that make the violent solution tolerable?” Nathaniel queries quietly.

“I don’t _know_ ,” she says.

“It seems he has found in you a better ally than he might have in me, had he come to me first,” Nathaniel says, rising in turn and beginning to pull on his clothing. His expression is one of mild annoyance.

“That,” she says with barely-masked irritation of her own, “is hardly fair. He _did_ come to you first; it is simply that you were not here. He clearly did not expect me any more than I expected him. What was I supposed to do, turn him out into the snow to die? ”

For a moment, she truly thinks that he may get angry with her, but after a few instants of charged silence, he shakes his head and sighs and tells her, “Never mind it, love; you’re right, of course. This should never have been your problem.”

His gentle tone only deepens her growing distress. “It is my problem _now_ ,” she tells him. Grabbing up her uniform and boots in an untidy bundle, she slams the door in her hurry to escape to the women’s bath at the end of the hall, eager to get away from his undemanding acceptance of her transgression.

***

She spends yet another day in a daze, filled with a curious mix of contrition and anger, although she cannot decide at whom the anger should be directed. Fortunately, the majority of the keep’s denizens are out of sorts, anyhow, felled by hangovers of varying magnitude. She escapes the gaze of those few who have braved the sunlight by barricading herself in the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves, and remaining elbow-deep in bread dough for the best part of the daylight hours. Cook never turns down assistance when it is offered, and it is gratifying to pound the hunks of dough into submission, at least, when she feels that absolutely nothing else remains in her control.

She asks to take her dinner upstairs with her, and although Cook gives her a curious look as she proceeds to fill a tray fit for three very hungry recruits, he doesn’t say anything. She walks wearily through the darkened hallways, hoping only that she has exhausted herself sufficiently to have no dreams. If she is very lucky, she will be asleep long before Nathaniel returns to their quarters, thereby neatly avoiding having to speak to him until she has worked out what to say about her morning outburst.

Unfortunately, her best-laid plans have a way of failing her recently; there is the murmur of voices coming from behind the door as she approaches. She stops, her hand on the knob, and listens, knowing already what she is likely to hear.

“Robes, again? In the wilderness? I see you never learned how to blend in.”

A low laugh, so soft she nearly misses it. “Give credit where it is due; at least it isn’t templars chasing me down anymore.” Silence, then, “Well, not _just_ templars.”

She hears Nathaniel sigh. “I was told you had changed, but I see now those rumors were exaggerated.”

The creak of furniture; someone sitting down. “Maybe seeing an old friend just brings out the best in me.”

“I would ask what your _worst_ is, if this is the best you can come up with, but then, I suppose I already know.”

“Yes.” There is no apology in his voice, but no pride, either.

“Why do you think I should help you?”

“Where else can I go? Back to Ferelden to bring Starkhaven’s army down on a land only just healing from a Blight?”

Nathaniel chuckles darkly and asks, “But bringing them swooping down upon us here is acceptable, I presume? Your idea of an _acceptable_ sacrifice is somewhat skewed, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Where would you have me go, then? To Starkhaven, in chains?”

“Oh, I doubt they would let you live long enough to clap chains on you.”

“Comforting, thanks. I _left_ the Wardens, Nathaniel. What kind of madman would look for me _here_ , of all places?”

“Good to know your sense of self-preservation is intact, though I cannot speak for your sense of honor.”

“ _Honor_?” Anders’ voice is a hiss of rage; she wonders how he is keeping Justice contained. “Where is the _honor_ in the way they are herded – like cattle – to their deaths? Where is the honor when children are ripped from their families-”

She opens the door, balancing the tray in one hand, and tries to look like she has not been eavesdropping all this time. Anders’ eyes bore into her, blue, glowing – _Justice_ , not Anders; he is not contained after all. “There may be someone in Nevarra who has not heard you,” she says, setting the tray down and watching, with equal parts curiosity and discomfort, as the glowing fades and Anders slumps back down onto the edge of the bed. Nathaniel stands in the corner, his arms crossed, his expression guarded. They stop glaring at each other to watch her, instead, and she cannot help but feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny. She fusses with the arrangement of plates and cups on the tray for something to do with her hands.

She has not seen him since that first night, and he looks a sight better – the hollows in his cheeks have filled in a bit, and he seems in better control of his faculties. Her midnight trips to the larder have done him some good. “I will go, if you prefer it,” she says quietly as the silence stretches on. The cups can only be rearranged so many times.

“I have no secrets from you,” Nathaniel says quietly.

She feels the shame, hot like bile at the back of her throat. “We all have secrets.”

“All I want,” Anders says, “is a world where people like _her_ can be free.”

“She is not _chained_ ,” Nathaniel growls.

“No, I am…” _tethered_ , she wants to say. But that is not a distinction either of them will be able to see, and she is not certain she can explain it herself. “I do not want that kind of responsibility,” she finally says. “I am going.” The armchair in the library is sounding like a better idea all the time.

“No, stay.” Anders rises, looking pained. “The last thing I want to do is make you feel unwelcome in your own home. I will go. I’m sorry. I suppose I had thought to find…”

“Compassion?” she asks softly.

“No, I don’t deserve that much,” he replies.

“Don’t forget your dinner,” Nathaniel grumbles. Anders gives him a bewildered look. “Bethany went to the trouble of fetching it, didn’t she? _I_ don’t want it.”

“But-”

“I asked why you believed I should help you. I never said I wouldn’t.” When Anders still doesn’t move, Nathaniel sighs loudly, walks over to the desk himself, and begins bundling together bread and cheese and sausage with the practiced ease of someone used to packing for travel on a moment’s notice. “They do not lock the old stable off the east wing,” he says matter-of-factly. “It will be drafty, but still, probably warmer than whatever rock you’ve been hiding under. You’ll want a cloak; I’ve got a spare. Bethany?”

She obeys automatically, going to the wardrobe to pull the folded wool from the back of the top shelf. It smells of pine needles and sage when she shakes it out – precious few things grow here, but she uses what she can find. It is frayed around the bottom, with a jagged tear across the left side; the result of an unexpected darkspawn sword thrust. “I hadn’t yet mended it,” she apologizes quietly.

Anders seems to have come to terms with this unexpected turn of events, for he reaches out to take it, swinging it over his shoulders. It seems enormous on him – Nathaniel is rather well-muscled, and Anders is still undeniably thin – but he smiles. “Never mind,” he tells her. “It’s perfect.”

Nathaniel turns and thrusts the bundle of food at him. “You know you cannot stay here indefinitely.”

“I know,” the mage agrees. “Only for now. It is enough.” It is the first real smile she has seen from him in too many years to count.

***

Much later, she is lying awake and feeling rather like she has been buffeted about by a hurricane wind. Nathaniel’s breathing is peaceful; it seems she has internalized enough anxiety for both of them. “You are thinking very loudly,” Nathaniel mutters against her hair, and she realizes he is awake.

“I’m sorry.” She turns to face him, though in the near-perfect darkness of the room which has been shuttered against the cold, she can barely make out more than his silhouette.

He sighs; she feels his chest rise and fall. “What was I supposed to do?” he asks sleepily. “Turn him out into the snow to die? It is bad luck to turn away a stray once you’ve chosen to shelter it.”

She thinks, then, of her sister’s dog; found in childhood in a derelict barn, tiny and whimpering, abandoned for no reason they could fathom except perhaps his size. They had brought him home wrapped in Carver’s jacket. Their mother had been furious, but their father had placed a hand on her shoulder and said, _He’s ours now, for better or worse._ The dog had stayed. “Is that why?” she asks.

He pulls her closer, kisses the crown of her head, and adds, “You seemed to feel strongly about it.”

She wants to apologize; instead, she whispers, “You are a good man.”

He yawns and tells her, “Go to sleep,” but it is a long time before she can.


	3. Close Enough to Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders makes an overture. The First Warden makes an assumption. Neither venture is successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this fic is, overall, serious in tone, I must admit I giggled like a schoolgirl throughout the last third of this chapter. You have been warned.
> 
>  
> 
>  _"So I won't let you close enough to hurt me,  
>  No, I won't ask you to just desert me,  
> I can't give you what you think you gave me..."_  
> -Adele, "Turning Tables"

She is harvesting the last of the sage in the herb garden in the hour before dinner, gathering the few velvety leaves which have not yet been destroyed by frost. These last few weeks have been colder than expected, and it is doubtful that anything will survive out here much longer; they help the plants along as best they can, but although there has been talk of a greenhouse off and on, there are not hands enough to build one. The best anyone is able to do is keep the earth soft and fertile, and to anyone who can hear it, the place nearly sings with magic. It is the elves who have taught her how to do this – the Circle teaches that magic is not for such menial tasks as making carrots grow, but as it turns out, magic is for a great many things she has never guessed at, and around here, fresh vegetables are hardly menial.

She knows he is there before she sees him; she has an awareness of being watched for a few long, uncomfortable minutes before his scuffed boots come into her field of vision, stopping just short of the plot of black earth. “Someone will see,” she says, although the garden is tucked behind the old stables in such a way that few ever venture there without a purpose, and if she is honest with herself – an increasingly difficult task these days – she is here at least partly with the hope of seeing him.

She remains kneeling on the frozen ground, the small knife in her hands, but she looks up at him. His blond hair is a bright beacon in the unending gray of the landscape, but the faded cloak he is wearing goes a long way toward making him less conspicuous. “I have been fortunate, thus far,” he says flippantly. “And correct me if I am wrong, but it seems you came looking for me.” He offers it to her again, that smile which is equal parts weary and charming, and although the weariness has drawn lines on his face and lines between them that she dares not cross, she is still charmed.

“You have a very high opinion of yourself, all of a sudden,” she mutters. “I came looking for seasoning.” But she feels her face grow warm. She could say that it is only the brisk wind blowing color into her cheeks, and she knows she will, if he questions her, but they will both know this isn’t true.

He does not challenge her. The smile flickers, dims, becomes an uncertain shadow of itself. She tries not to regret its absence. “Shall I leave you to your gardening?” he asks.

A particularly strong gust of wind tries its best to tear her cloak from her shoulders. She shivers. “Not long until winter, now,” she says instead of answering him. She stands, brushing the dirt from her hands, tucking the knife into her belt.

“I would invite you in to tea,” he says wryly, “but I fear my temporary domicile is not fit for company.”

It is so ridiculous that a laugh escapes, one that is neither bitter nor cautious. “Recall that I once lived with my Uncle Gamlen,” she tells him. “We can make do.”

She ducks under the eaves and into the dim interior of the stable. It smells of dust and hay, rotting wood and a lingering tang of manure. The walls are cracked, here and there, letting in the late afternoon light and the wind. Several of the stall doors have fallen off entirely, others are hanging drunkenly on one hinge. It suits the landscape, she thinks – utterly devoid of any sign of hope. It suits him, the way he is now. And yet it does not suit him at all.

Still, it is warmer than the alternative – barely. There is a trickle of magic in the air, and she realizes he has lit a candle, one Nathaniel must have smuggled to him, for she has not thought past the immediacy of filling in his hollow cheeks. In one of the four stalls which yet retain their doors, the remaining hay has been bunched into the semblance of a pallet. He takes off his cloak and spreads it, indicating that she should sit; she sits on an overturned bucket in the corner instead. Rummaging in her pocket, she comes up with a spool of coarse thread and a needle. Angling towards the light, she snaps off a length of thread and draws it expertly through the needle’s eye.

He watches her, clearly uncertain how to react as she pulls the cloak across her lap. She is uncertain herself; her moods have not been at their most stable lately. Finding the largest of the slashes, she begins to sew. “You do not have to do that,” he protests.

“I do not like to leave things half-finished,” she replies, and continues to draw the needle through the worn wool, bringing jagged edges back into alignment, binding them with small, sure stitches. The simple task steadies her; she prefers to have something to do with her hands when she is uncomfortable.

“Is that why you came?” he queries.

She says, “Yes,” and then, “No. In a way. I don’t know.” Because the cloak is not the only unfinished thing between them, and its edges are far easier to mend than the other broken things; she prefers to begin with the only task that appears to be surmountable. He is silent, no doubt drawing his own conclusions from her words. She grapples for something to say, comes up with, “You’re in my light.”

He moves the candle closer to her, then seats himself on the straw pallet. After a moment he holds out a heel of bread to her – the remains of a loaf she left for him two days ago – and says, “It seems I’m all out of tea.”

She laughs again, but this laugh is devoid of the unexpected brightness she felt in the garden. It is impossible to be lighthearted when faced with his circumstances. “I am not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” he tells her, and bites off a large chunk of it. It is surely dry by now, but he does not complain.

For a few moments, there is silence, and it is almost comfortable. He eats, she sews, and the single candle flickers between them, shedding its faint light. Finally, she asks him, “What will you do?”

His laugh is as bitter as hers, though his voice is almost painfully merry. “Survive,” he tells her. “Hopefully, at any rate. I’m better at it than I have any right to be.”

It is a loaded statement; she does not rise to the bait. Sitting in this stable, she remembers, too well, the moments when her life narrowed only to putting one foot in front of the other and pushing air in and out of her lungs. The rest of his life, such as it is, will be this way; she cannot offer a derisive comment when she feels so much pity.

“I told you – I don’t deserve your compassion,” he tells her, quietly. She looks up to find him watching her intently. “You have a very expressive face, Bethany.”

“Sometimes,” she murmurs, “we receive things we do not deserve.” She smoothes her hand over the cloak, now whole. In the half-light, the seam is all but invisible.

He places his hand over hers, fingers barely touching; she stills like a wary creature in the presence of a predator as he gently fingers the wool, as if testing the stitches. “Sometimes,” he says, “it seems we receive them twice.”

She does not look at him – cannot do it, for fear of what she will see, or perhaps what she will do. She thinks of another time, so long ago, his hand brushing hers in the darkness, an intake of breath, a fleeting moment of almost-intimacy, gone before it could become anything else. This is all they have shared, but in that moment, it feels like too much even as she acknowledges it is nowhere near enough. “Don’t,” she tells him sharply.

“I haven’t done anything,” he counters. The unspoken _yet_ hovers between them, a silent promise.

“Why do I always feel like I am going in circles with you?” she whispers; she cannot find a stronger voice with which to say it, anymore than she can find the physical strength to move.

“Because you are too kindhearted to hate me, however much you should.” She does not say anything; he is not wrong. “And perhaps,” he ventures, “you feel there is something left undone.”

She shakes her head. “Hardly that. You were in love with my sister,” she accuses quietly.

“I was in… awe,” he corrects, although it seems to take him a moment to settle on the word. “As were most of those who spent more than a few hours in her company.”

She cannot deny this is true; there is certainly something awe-inspiring about the seemingly effortless way her sister bends everything around her to her will. She has always done this with an agility and grace that sets her apart; Bethany had worshipped her, Carver had resented her, and Mother had simply sighed and given in to her, but it was undeniable that everyone had noticed.

“She never saw me,” he says after a few moments, seeing that she is not willing to speak. “But you…”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she says, more emphatic now. She does not rise to her feet gracefully, but she does rise; the spell, such as it is, is broken. She hears the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls, and feels gratitude for the guttering light of the candle which casts concealing shadows. “I will be missed,” she tells him abruptly.

“Yes,” he says; in the way he says it, she senses another entreaty.

“I am going,” she tells him firmly.

“I will not stop you.”

Because she almost wishes he would, she turns and goes out into the dusk and the cold, and tells herself that it is only the unexpectedly low angle of the sun that causes her to run.

She is nearly at the side kitchen door when she is waylaid by one of the senior Wardens. It is a difficulty to keep her expression neutral when she sees him; this part of the grounds is generally deserted, the safest place she can think of for a fugitive. The presence of ranking officers is the last thing any of them need. He stops when he sees her. She does not know him well, but he is old enough to have some gray in his hair, and in Weisshaupt this is something worthy of respect. She nods her head politely and tries to smile. He looks at her in a way that makes it rather difficult, and she cannot summon the energy to try harder. She wants to hold the sage leaves in front of her like a shield or an explanation, but realizes she has left them in the stable, along with her common sense. “Good evening,” she says; he is still watching her fixedly.

“The First Warden would see you,” he announces without preamble. “Now.”

***

She has worried herself into something just shy of outright panic when she is escorted into the inner chamber at the top of the fortress’ tallest tower. She stands there, almost shaking, looks at the exceptionally fine carpet spread across the stone floor, and hopes Anders can still run as fast as he did ten years ago.

“Hawke.” The word is an accusation. In her three years at Weisshaupt, she has been in this room exactly once before – upon her arrival. The First Warden, an enormous and abundantly scarred man with a thick Anders accent, looks like a thundercloud as he regards her across his desk, which is as scarred as his face. It should be surprising that this man remembers her surname when no one else ever uses it.

“Yes, sir.”

He clears his throat. “Hawke, are you… in the family way?” The thunderous anger dissolves into marked discomfort, but she is too busy being stunned by his words to really appreciate this fact.

“Am I… _what_ , sir?” she finally manages to croak out, voice none too steady.

“ _You_ know.” He glares at her. She fights the urge to shrink back against the wall under the force of it. “Are you…. oh for Andraste’s sake… _pregnant_?” He spits this last word out like an epithet.

She is certain she looks somewhat comical, scarlet and wide-eyed as she must be, as she exclaims, “Maker, _no!_ Where did you get such an idea? Sir,” she adds belatedly, remembering protocol, though he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Are you _very_ certain?” he asks her, narrowing his eyes. “You have been eating quite a lot more than usual lately, and the recruits complain you are irritable and short of temper, not to mention perpetually tired. I am _told_ ,” he says as she stares at him, “that these are reliable signs.”

She mentally curses the well-meaning Cook, the recruits, Anders, and Nathaniel for good measure as the man stares at her as though she may produce a child from under her armor at any moment. “I am _very_ certain. Sir.” She knows that she has to explain herself somehow, and certainly _I have been losing sleep over a deserter, if you please, and if I appear to be eating for two it is only because he is very hungry_ will not do. It is a measure of the complexity of her feelings about the situation that she thinks it would certainly be less problematic if she were with child – as unlikely as such an eventuality is.

The First Warden is still watching her, and she has to say something – anything – and to her great relief, she feels tears spring to her eyes. She knows she is coming apart at the seams in front of her superior, but there is a certain liberation in it; better he believe her to be a silly girl than the alternative. Considering the only means of dismissal acceptable to the First Warden involves decapitation, she feels unwilling to share her recent treasonous activities with him; at least no one has ever been dismissed from the Wardens for being an idiot. “I have not been sleeping well, sir,” she says at last, her voice nearly a whisper. The First Warden says nothing, very loudly. She stands there, weeping, and if she is not making the best case for herself, at least her secret is safe.

After a few minutes of this, he sighs, then lets out a rather impressive string of curses. “ _Women_ ,” he says, with such derision that ordinarily she would bristle. “Pull yourself together,” he adds tersely. “You are a _Warden_ , for Andraste’s sake, not a… a silly milkmaid.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

He sighs again. “I am getting too old for this,” he announces. “You are no green recruit to need a nursemaid. I _will not_ coddle you, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she repeats. She does not think she is expected to say anything else.

“Well… _good_.” He comes around his desk, looking her over critically. She attempts not to wilt further under his gaze. He grunts disparagingly and tells her, “I suppose you will have to do. You can travel, I hope?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Good. Pack your things. King Alistair of Ferelden will be in Hossberg two weeks hence. We are to send a delegation to meet him. He has requested Nathaniel Howe specifically. I had considered sending Syrinn along, but he is not entirely well, either, and you will do well enough for _politics_ , I suppose.” His sneer is enough to tell her what he thinks of that occupation, but her head is reeling. She has not gone more than two days distance from the compound since her arrival. The thought of a _city_ …

“Well? No objections?” He narrows his eyes at her, clearly expecting her to raise one, just for the pleasure of denying it.

“If you think it best, no, sir,” she replies.

“I do not like _politics_ ,” he says with great distaste. “I hate court. I have few enough men to spare who know how to smile on command, and fewer still who can carry on an idle conversation about Nevarran statuary or Orlesian theatre or other similar drivel. Few of the highborn choose this calling, but you are of noble birth, and you can do some good there, since you are completely useless _here_ in your current state.”

She thinks of telling him, _I was raised on a farm,_ but wisely keeps her mouth shut. He does not appear to be done with his tirade.

“And Hawke,” he cautions, “whatever it is that ails you, I suggest you get control of yourself before you arrive there. And if you are-”

“I’m _not_ -”

“ _If you are_ ,” he repeats, his eyes glinting dangerously, “indeed in a… _situation_ , a post can be found for you there until such time as it is… resolved. We do not have midwives or bassinets or Maker knows what other nonsense here in Weisshaupt. That is not going to change. I hope I have made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he says. “You leave in the morning. You are excused.” As she turns to leave, she hears him mutter, “Better Howe than me; how some people survive the Joining…”

She is halfway down the tower stairs before she collapses against a wall in a fit of hysterical laughter; as hysteria goes, it is not far removed from her earlier tears, but it does make her feel better.


	4. Fire Starting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel is, as always, an exceedingly nice guy. The voyage to Weisshaupt gets unexpectedly interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating, I fear, is likely to rise very, very soon. Also, the next chapter has guaranteed cameos by at least three familiar faces...
> 
>  _"There's a fire starting in my heart,  
>  Reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark,  
> Finally, I can see you crystal clear..."_  
> -Adele, "Rolling in the Deep"

Nathaniel takes the First Warden’s flawed deductive reasoning philosophically – “It is better than the alternative, isn’t it?” – but he is less than pleased with her announcement that she is to accompany him to the capital. “I had thought,” he says, furrowing his brow, “that Stroud indicated some time ago that it would be best for all concerned if you remained here.”

“Stroud is in Val Royeaux,” she says flatly. “And he is outranked.”

“I do not like it,” he tells her with a scowl.

“I do not believe you have a say in the matter,” she replies; now that the hysteria has passed, she feels calm and very tired. She goes to the wardrobe and draws out her dress uniform, which she has worn perhaps thrice since joining the order; it is the finest thing she owns and she does not doubt that it will see plenty of wear now, if she is to attend two kings at once.

Nathaniel curses under his breath. “You are taking this well.”

She shrugs and points out, “I do not have a say, either.”

He watches her lay out the uniform and begin the process of packing for a long journey. Finally, he says, “And what of your stray?”

“I suppose,” she says softly, “that it is time for him to move on.”

He is silent for a time, then tells her, “Life is short, Bethany. Especially for ones such as us.” The words are spoken with a quiet finality that belies their message of selflessness; she wonders how difficult they were to say. She finds she cannot look at him, fearful of seeing the price of such altruism writ plain upon his features. She does not think she can bear it.

“You of all people should not say such things to me,” she replies after she has wrestled her guilt down far enough that she can speak over it.

“Maybe not,” he tells her. He comes to stand behind her now, his hands warm upon her shoulders. “But some things must be said, and there is none other to say them.”

“I do not want your… _blessing_ ,” she says, with as much venom as she can inject into the word.

“And I do not want to give it, but here we are.” His chuckle is devoid of all humor. She looks down at her hands, clasped so tightly that the knuckles are white. After awhile, he removes his hands; footsteps, the creak of the door hinge, and he is gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

***

She recalls very clearly the first time she met Nathaniel. Early in her tenure with the Wardens, she was plagued by nightmares, and she suffered them without the quiet stoicism of her new compatriots. She woke with tears on her cheeks, screams and whimpers dying in her throat as she shot from the dubious comfort of sweat-soaked blankets, searching with wild eyes for enemies who were never there. New recruits were given leeway with this sort of behavior, and to be honest, she realizes now that no one expected her to last very long, the way she carried on at the time. But in her first year with the Wardens, she was beyond shame; her own sheltered frailty was a difficult lesson to swallow, and she had feared, then, that she would lose her mind long before the taint took her.

And so she dreamed, tossing and turning, but on her first mission with him, she woke to his face, and not the empty silence of her tent. She can recall sheepishly now that she attacked him with her bare hands – a mercy she hadn’t had the wherewithal to try magic – and he brushed her blows off as though she were no more than a kitten batting at his chest. She had gone from swatting at him to crying into his jerkin, and his arms had come around her back to hold her, gently. When she at last felt empty of everything – tears, bitterness, even nightmares – she had felt, for the first time, as though she might be all right.

He hadn’t said anything at the time, only offered her a handkerchief and a compassionate squeeze of the shoulders with his large, gentle hands. She had tried her best to offer a smile – shaky and watery as it was – and he had graciously not commented on her teary, swollen face. Instead, he had told her, quietly, _It would be a comforting lie to tell you that this will fade with time, but it does become… somewhat easier._ Once it was clear that she had regained her equilibrium, he had left her kneeling there, in the disheveled pile of blankets, as though he understood that she needed a few moments to compose herself in solitude. Even then, he seemed to know instinctively when to offer her space.

He was quiet and grim, then. It was said he was in mourning, although no one would quite disclose for whom, and she dared not ask him herself. His silence suited her, and hers seemed to suit him, and so they gravitated towards each other based, perhaps, on this single similarity. At his side, she has slowly recovered her emotional strength; in those early years, he was like a comfortingly solid wall which she could hide behind whenever her sanity was threatened. What he saw in her then she cannot say, but it does seem to her that they have, over time, come to heal each other. He has remembered how to smile, and she has remembered how to laugh, and in their slow and quiet progression from unlikely friends to something more – as though they have all the time in the world at their disposal instead of a handful of years – they have both discovered that despite the darkness that fills them, they are still capable of affection.

She thinks of this in the few hours meant for rest before the journey, and by the pattern of his breathing she can tell that he is also awake, although his thoughts are, as always, a mystery to her. He is once again quiet and grim, the way he was then, and she is off balance, and it feels as though they have somehow stepped back in time. She has always treasured their silences, filled with the easy comfort of understanding; they are silent now, but she is not comforted, and she does not know where to begin breaking the silence to unravel the knot in her stomach. They have never spoken of the future and they have rarely had cause to reminisce about the past; this is the first time she finds herself regretting the single-minded focus on the present which has helped her keep if not exactly cheerful then at least peaceful.

When she closes her eyes at last, it is only to dream. In the dream, she is dying; she feels the darkness creeping through her blood, an invader bent on her destruction. She cannot see except in nauseating swathes of too-bright color, and every breath is labored. She wants, very badly, to lie down and let herself be taken, for she is too ill and tired to be frightened. Death, she thinks, will be a release from the waves of pain and the feeling of violation. It will be a release from her magic – her curse – and her weakness. It is fluttering inside her chest, pushing vainly against the darkness, or perhaps the fluttering is her heart. She cannot tell anymore.

A blessed coolness washes over her, bringing with it a few moments of lucidity and relief. From the incomprehensible golds, browns, blues, and blacks smeared across her vision, his face comes into focus. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a sharp crease between his eyebrows; she can feel him in her blood as he pushes the taint back. He is strong, stronger than anyone she has ever known, but she knows he is not strong enough. _Let me go,_ she whispers.

The flash of anger in his eyes – hot and blue and foreign – makes her wonder if she is slipping away again; the crease between his eyebrows deepens. He looks to be in pain himself, as though he has taken her suffering into his own blood to ease it. _I will not._

_I cannot –_

He cups her face in his hand, and his touch is as cool as his magic. _You can. You must hold on._

Wearily, she obeys.

Colors swirl around her; the darkness whispers in its thousand sibilant voices. His hand becomes her father’s, cool and wide against her fevered face. She reaches up to touch his beard with little-girl hands but finds only air. Her father’s face fades into nothing. She feels fire under her skin, in her blood, licking at her bones as her heart pounds like a drum at a frantic tempo. The voices chitter all around her, and she can almost understand their words, if she concentrates.

She doesn’t want to concentrate.

She wraps her arms around herself to quell her sudden shaking, and Nathaniel’s quiet, gravelly voice whispers, _Peace. You are safe now._ His voice chases back the other voices in the darkness, but they are still there, on the periphery of her consciousness, and they promise death, or madness. There is a distant roar, growing in intensity; she wakes with its ringing in her ears to another snowy pre-dawn and Nathaniel’s hand brushing her hair from her forehead. She gulps in greedy lungfuls of air, trying to still her heart from the effects of the nightmare; she does not remember the last time she had one so vivid, or so incomprehensibly terrifying.

Nathaniel does not say anything – he never has, not since the first time – but he watches her with his usual quiet concern until she can bring his face into focus and shake off the remnants of terror. “It is nearly time,” he tells her. “I thought it better to wake you.”

“Yes,” she says, and her voice is almost calm. “Thank you.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and finds she can stand, although the cold stone floor makes her shiver. “I will be but a moment,” she promises, composing herself, erasing her distress, refusing to think of what such a dream could mean in light of her imminent departure. “You should go on to the mess hall,” she tells him, and even manages to smile. “Get some breakfast, before all we’ve got is boiled oats and bad tea.”

He tilts her chin up with one finger, places a cool kiss upon her lips, and tells her, “Don’t be long.”

***

There are seven of them going to the capital, which seems like a small number only until one takes into account the relative capability of even one Warden to take on half a dozen darkspawn at once with a healthy chance of survival; she doubts anything short of the Starkhaven army is going to cause them difficulty. She has known most of the men for years, and she is fond enough of a number of them: Jazek, a mountain of a man originally from a village not an hour from Weisshaupt, his grin easy and his sword enormous; Koris, a Nevarran whose diminutive stature belies a speed that is almost not to be believed; Darek and Romik, looking like twins in their identical dwarven plate; Lerrel with his dark eyes and Dalish longbow.

There is a great deal of good-natured ribbing about their mission, warnings that getting fat and lazy won’t be tolerated, innuendoes about the feather beds they will no doubt be sleeping in once they reach the palace, requests for souvenirs to be brought back. People pat her on the back – and the stomach, proving once again that rumor travels at a speed not to be believed – and wish her well. She can’t watch as Lerrel and Syrinn say good-bye; it is obvious to anyone with eyes that Syrinn resents her intrusion into what was supposed to be his place. The First Warden puts in an appearance, says a few brusque words, then strides back into the keep, and that is the end of it.

She turns and follows the others through the archway leading to the world outside, thinking that it feels very strange to be marching away with a pack of supplies on her back after years of watching others from the courtyard. Koris strikes up a marching song in a clear tenor and the others join in, one by one, although no one else has a voice nearly as fine. She adds her soprano to the second verse, thinking that it does feel very much like they are setting out on holiday.

Nathaniel, who is the only one not singing – possibly because he could not carry a tune in a bucket and Koris has threatened to maim him if he ever forgets it – shakes his head and says, “It’s a good thing stealth isn’t our first priority.”

“If someone attacks us,” Koris says as the song goes on around him, “just sing a few notes. Problem solved.”

Everyone laughs, even her, and she can almost forget about the dream and Anders, who she is leaving behind.

***

Three days into their journey, just past a small village clearly struggling to survive a poor harvest, trouble finds them. The landscape here is rocky, with endless hiding spots available, and they do not detect the ambush until they are in the middle of it. An arrow scrapes her ear, the unexpected sting of pain so sharp that she gasps. A second stops a handbreadth from her eye and falls harmlessly to the snow, deterred by a sudden crackling field of repellant magic so intense that the snow around her feet doesn’t so much melt as it evaporates.

Everything after that happens in an instant.

The bandits seem to melt out of the scrubby brush to bear down on them from both sides of the valley. Her staff is in her hands, the hair at the back of her neck rising as she flings spells at their attackers. Beside her, she hears the rhythmic draw and snap of Nathaniel’s bowstring. Above the ring of steel on steel, the sky blooms with fire and lightning, and not all of it is hers. With a cool detachment, she aims and fires, concentrates and releases, ignores the screams of the wounded and dying as she rains down death on the archers stationed at the lip of the crevasse. Arrows are flying around her, but nothing touches her. From behind the unyielding barrier, she watches with the dispassionate concentration she has perfected over the years as they fall – one, two, five, seven, ten, fourteen. Then only silence remains, until one of the Wardens – all standing – cheers and the others around him take it up.

Before she realizes what is happening, she is being picked up and whirled around; she barely keeps her balance when Jazek sets her down. “Andraste’s knickers, woman, since when can you do that?”

“Stop shaking her, Jazek, you’ll hurt the baby,” Lerrel tells him crossly.

“There is no baby,” Bethany insists, but no one is listening to her. Romik pulls out a flask from _somewhere_ , as if by magic – no real surprise though – and Koris starts tossing the corpses for valuables. Nathaniel and Lerrel join him, and no one at all is looking at her as a hand snakes out from behind a boulder and yanks her into its shadow.

She doesn’t scream – quite – because the hand has the feel of magic about it, and it is a magic she knows almost as well as her own. “What are you _doing_?” she hisses as he pulls her around to face him. “What are you doing _here_?”

He ignores both questions. His hands are in her hair, pulling it back from her cheeks. He hisses in irritation as his hand comes away from her ear bloody. “You could have _died_ ,” he accuses. “If you cannot watch for your own safety, one would think that Nathaniel, at least-”

“You’re _crazy_ ,” she informs him in the same angry, hushed tone. She is hyper-aware of the others, only steps away from the shallow crevasse he has pulled her into. Darek belches; Romik laughs. Lerrel appears to be disputing the ownership of the bandit leader’s particularly nice ring with Koris. None of them seem aware of her absence, or of the man who has followed them from Weisshaupt with, apparently, the misguided idea that he needs to protect her. “It’s a scratch. I have been taking care of myself for ten years; I don’t need you, or Nathaniel, or _anyone_ to-”

His magic slams into her without any finesse; quite aside from the scratch on her ear, every tiny bruise and ache she has developed over the last several days vanishes in its wake, along with her breath. “You clearly have _no idea_ what you need,” he cuts off, his face twisted in rage.

She almost responds, _the last thing I need is **you**_ ; she wants to say it, but she is caught by the fear and fury in his eyes, and cannot say anything at all. His hands are still in her hair and her heart is still pounding with adrenaline and it seems the most inevitable thing in the world when he drags her against his chest and crushes his mouth down on hers.

For years, she has labored under the delusion that Anders is a gentle man; every word and caress that she has guiltily allowed herself to imagine has been filled with the tenderness her life has lacked. He is not gentle now, but then, none of this is how she imagined it would be.

His hand in her hair is almost painful as it drags her head back, but she allows it, allows her lips to part, allows herself to feel the need burning through her, like a tempest, like fire, like magic. It is unlike anything she has ever experienced, except perhaps the darkness which nearly devoured her, once; much like she did then she feels completely outside of her own control, and if the feeling this time is glorious, it is also acutely terrifying.

It lasts an eternity, but only moments; she hears footsteps and someone calling her name – Nathaniel – and sanity returns. She pushes herself away, wild-eyed, breathless, transformed. He lets her go, but she can see, in his eyes, the same indefinable _something_ that is now burning at her core; he does not need to speak to tell her it is not over. One way or another, they have merely begun.

The footsteps come closer; she raises her voice and croaks out, “Can’t a woman use the privy in peace?” There is male laughter, a crude comment about the inconvenience of robes, another about babies, then the sound of a scuffle, a shouted apology. The footsteps retreat.

For a few more moments, she holds his gaze. She runs her hands over her hair, her robes, trying to put herself to rights. He watches her do this, silently, and then he mouths, _go_. She knows that she should tell him the same, that she should make him _go_ , anyplace at all as long as it isn’t here, but the words refuse to come. The only thing she can tell him, it seems, is _stay safe_.


	5. Resist or Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the Hossberg mission, featuring King Alistair, an inevitable tryst, and an end-of-chapter appearance by two more familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This links up with [Chasing Sunsets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/277272), if you're interested in how exactly the end of the chapter came to be.
> 
>  _"You push me,  
>  I don't have the strength to  
> Resist or control you,  
> So take me down, take me down..."_  
> -Maroon 5, "Never Gonna Leave This Bed"

Anders remains out of sight – and hopefully out of trouble – for the rest of the march to Hossberg. She, too, remains a bit apart, but the men accompanying her are content to allow this; if she is behaving strangely, it seems to be the assumption that a woman in her supposed condition is entitled to some oddities. Somehow, she ends up with twice the blankets of anyone else, and they are constantly slipping her extra rations, too, no matter what she says, which makes her worry about Anders, and what _he_ is eating in a wasteland which makes it nigh impossible to scavenge anything. Since he does not show his face again, she cannot ask him, but she thinks she can almost sense that he is near, somewhere. The thought of it keeps her awake at night.

There is no further trouble on the road. As they approach the capital, the landscape becomes a bit more hospitable; they spend a number of days following a river, which is surrounded by tufts of brown grass peeking out from beneath the latest dusting of snow. It has not iced over yet, and the sound of running water feels almost foreign after years of the preternatural silence surrounding Weisshaupt Fortress. Villages pop up more frequently, too, so they spend the last few nights in inns; as everywhere else in the Anderfels, Wardens are offered food and lodging free of charge. It is odd to see so many strangers after years of the same faces day after day, and when the walls of the city come into view, it is odder yet to see the sprawling evidence of so many people gathered in one place.

She has not seen a proper city since Amaranthine, and although she spent five years at Vigil’s Keep – where Stroud had deposited her within a few months of her Joining, ostensibly with the assumption that a return to her homeland might help her recover some of her faculties, or at least the will to live – she realizes that she has grown unaccustomed to the noise and smell of a large settlement. It is like and yet very unlike the Fereldan port city, just as it is like and yet very unlike Kirkwall. The buildings are shabbier, the people are blonder, the greenery is sparse enough to be nearly nonexistent. But here, as in Amaranthine, the uniform of the Wardens clears a path through the thickest of crowds. The people close in behind them once they have passed, and although she tries to keep an eye out for Anders’ familiar face, there are too many thin, pale-haired people in the streets for her to distinguish if he is among them. She tries to tell herself that this is a good thing but she cannot help worrying.

There is no Warden outpost in Hossberg, the others explain to her as they make their way through progressively richer parts of town. Instead, a wing of the royal palace is kept reserved for the order, and they are accorded the same treatment as visiting royalty and dignitaries. “Feather beds,” Koris says with a dreamy smile on his face.

“Scores of maids,” Lerrel adds; he seems to have forgiven her for taking Syrinn’s place at last and is once again speaking to her. “You will have to beat them off with a stick, Bethany; they’re laboring under the delusion that Nathaniel here is _so_ handsome.”

“Considering what they have to choose from, that isn’t much of a compliment,” Nathaniel says easily. Clearly he is perturbed neither by the good-natured ribbing nor the admiration of the castle’s staff.

“Oh, _I’m_ beneath their notice,” Lerrel replies with a laugh.

“No short jokes, pretty man,” Darek mutters.

Jazek’s booming laugh rings out. “And that makes me, what? Above their notice?”

“No,” Lerrel replies, sparing a glance up at Jazek’s enormous frame. “Just ugly.”

Jazek glares halfheartedly. “That isn’t particularly nice.”

“It doesn’t have to be, to be true,” Koris says.

Jazek shrugs after a moment and says, “Well, the food is good, at any rate.”

“And they bring out the _good_ wine,” Romik concludes, grinning. “I sodding well _love_ this place."

***

She reserves judgment, but they are certainly welcomed at the palace with open arms. To her eye, familiar with the ostentatious displays of wealth favored by many Free Marchers, the finery seems shabby here and there – scratches on some of the furniture, fading paint and tapestries, dark colors – but even so, it is lavish compared with the living arrangements of most in the Anderfels. True to Koris’ word, the beds and duvets are both goosedown, and a pretty young maid whisks their packs away the moment they are shown to their rooms – two bedrooms, with a joint sitting room and an attached bathing room. The sitting room windows look out on the grounds; some things have been coaxed to grow in the royal gardens, and if the trees are somewhat stunted, at least they are present.

Nathaniel sits on the couch and pulls off his boots, seemingly content to let her explore their temporary quarters. He has not had much to say these last weeks, and she has not quite gathered the courage to push him into conversation. Finishing her circuit of the room, she sits next to him and allows her shoulders to relax. She is unaccustomed to long marches after three years behind Weisshaupt’s walls; her back aches, as do her feet, and she feels suddenly a great deal older than her twenty-eight years. After a moment, she places her head on his shoulder, seeking the comfort she has previously found with him with such ease. It doesn’t come.

“Are you tired?” he asks quietly.

“Exhausted,” she admits. “And that is after everyone coddled me on the way here.”

“They’re worried about you,” Nathaniel responds. “One can hardly blame them.”

“One can, if one knows the truth,” she says bitterly.

“Fortunately for everyone involved, they don’t,” Nathaniel says with a tiny shrug. “All things considered, it’s as effective a diversion as you might have wished for.”

“I didn’t wish for any of this,” she murmurs.

He shrugs again, clearly irritated, and she breaks the contact, retreating to the other end of the couch. After a moment of tense silence, he replies, “Irrespective of what you decide to do, Bethany, and what you choose to tell me, I will have to insist that you at least not lie to me.”

“I don’t…” She feels the color flooding her cheeks, chokes back excuses, because it doesn’t matter, after all, how much he knows or suspects. Whatever happens, he is right to expect the truth from her; he has given her no less. “I suppose,” she responds, “that I can at least say I never wished for things to happen like _this_.”

“Adjust your expectations,” he tells her flatly. “ _This_ is all any of us have.”

“I intended to leave it – him – this – behind,” she says, trying not to sound like she is justifying herself; it is a bit late to justify anything, but the impulse is powerful. “I didn’t tell him to follow us halfway across the country.”

“Of course you didn’t; I did.” He is scowling as he says it, but there is a dark satisfaction in his tone. “I’m only surprised that he actually took my advice; it is likely the first and last time in his life that he has decided to listen to me.”

“But _why_?” she demands.

“Because,” he says, “how many choices can you honestly say you have been allowed to make for yourself?” She is silent as he watches her with understanding; they both know the answer would be pathetic by anyone’s standards. “Most things are outside of my control, but if I can at all help it, I will not make someone I love feel like she has been caged.”

She bows her head, thinking of Nathaniel’s anger and her own resignation when faced with Anders’ desperate appeal for her freedom; _I am not caged, I am… tethered_. “You have never made me feel that way,” she whispers.

“And what have I made you feel?” he asks. She is silent. _Safe, comforted, home_ ; these are not the answers he is seeking, but he has asked her not to lie. He places a hand under her chin and raises her face so that she can meet his eyes. “And that,” he says, “is why. When you choose, it will be _your_ choice.”

“I love you,” she tells him, and the words are true; whatever is happening between her and Anders, this much she knows with certainty.

His expression warms slightly. “I know,” he tells her. “If and when it is enough, I will be here.”

***

She wanders into one of the two bedrooms and collapses into a deep, dreamless sleep for the rest of the day. When she awakens, her dress uniform has been laid out for her and she finds Nathaniel already dressed in the sitting room. “The banquet will begin in half an hour,” he tells her. “You are lucky you slept; anytime one royal tries to impress another, the succession of dishes takes hours, at least.”

“Is the King of Ferelden here?” she asks curiously.

“Don’t worry,” Nathaniel says. “You will see him soon enough.” He looks tense, but then, she has gotten the distinct impression over the years that he prefers to avoid royalty and nobility altogether, though he should be one of their number.

Somewhere in the city, a bell dolefully chimes the dinner hour, and they make their way down the halls of the Wardens’ wing of the palace and into the public portion of the building. They finally emerge into a cavernous hall lit with hundreds of flickering candles and filled with people in formal dress. She feels acute discomfort, but keeps her expression pleasantly neutral as she follows in Nathaniel’s wake. It is not that she is unaccustomed to grandeur – for even in its severity, Weisshaupt is grand enough – but rather that she is unaccustomed to liveried servants bowing when she passes.

Strange, how many times in her childhood and adolescence she dreamed of exactly this: bright lights, silk and velvet gowns, the murmur of conversation accented with the occasional chime of laughter, the delectable scents of a feast soon to be served, the soft music wafting from one of the balconies surrounding the room, the approving glances of strangers. Her mother, she knows, would have taken this all in stride; the thought is bittersweet, but she holds her head higher. She may not be a lady in a fine dress, despite all childhood fantasies, but she is here, and in her way she has a place in this august company. She thinks, wistfully, of whirling around the barn in Carver’s arms as a girl while her mother called out the steps; somehow, she doubts any stranger would approach a woman in armor for a dance, and anyway, it has been years and she doubts she can recall the correct succession of movements.

Just then, the crowd before them parts, and a handsome man wearing ornate ceremonial armor and an affable expression turns his gaze on them; Nathaniel stiffens visibly, and though she has only ever seen him from a great distance, Bethany knows who the man must be before he speaks. “There you are, Howe! I was beginning to think you were avoiding me; your departure from Amaranthine was rather hasty.” This last is said with no small amount of curiosity; it is clear that whatever favor Nathaniel called in to get the transfer, the king was not apprised of it. In truth, the events of three years back remain somewhat mysterious even to her, despite having lived through them. Nathaniel had been the Warden Commander of Vigil’s Keep in all but name by then, in lieu of Her Majesty, who came and went a few times a year; as it happened the queen was not present when news of unrest in Kirkwall reached Ferelden, and Nathaniel had granted Bethany leave to go to the Free Marches without asking too many questions.

After the disastrous battle in Kirkwall and the unavoidable period of hiding that had followed, she had returned to Amaranthine to find rumors already flying. Although her name had, at the time, been kept out of it, Nathaniel had sighed and locked himself in his office with an expression that clearly denoted a headache; within less than a week, he had received notification of a transfer to Weisshaupt, as had she and half a dozen others, who appeared to be randomly chosen, at least at first glance. Nathaniel had handed command to his second and they had left so quickly that she had not had time to properly say good-bye.

Now, Nathaniel’s expression is carefully shuttered, and she wonders, not for the first time, how he managed it. “We live in uncertain times, Your Majesty,” he replies, which is no kind of answer, but the king seems to accept this as inevitable.

“I suppose you’re right; if it isn’t one thing, it’s another.” It is certainly the understatement of the age, but it is not her place to say anything. In fact, she does her best to look like she isn’t listening at all, because the less attention paid to her by anyone important while she is here, the better. Not for the first time, she wishes her sister were here in her place.

Unfortunately, the Maker himself seems to be against her; the king turns his friendly, open smile towards her and addresses her. “You’ll have to forgive me. You look very familiar, but I’m terrible at putting names to faces. You are…”

She can’t think of anything but to answer him. “Bethany,” she says, nodding her head and wondering if she should curtsy. Not that a curtsy makes much sense, either, considering she’s in armor, but he is the king, after all. When he continues to look at her inquisitively, she grudgingly adds, “Hawke.”

His eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. “Really?” he says, in a tone of voice that clearly suggests he has added two and two and come to the only possible conclusion. From the stiffening of Nathaniel’s spine, she almost wishes she had given his family name instead; it would not be the first time, but she finds herself hesitant to lie to this man.

“It’s a common enough name,” she says instead. As an excuse, it’s terrible, but she can think of nothing else to say.

Nathaniel gives her an exasperated look and says, “Bethany has been with the Wardens for nearly ten years now.”

“I should apologize for not having learned your name, then,” the king tells her with another of his easy smiles. “It’s only that you reminded me of someone… else.”

“It is no trouble, Your Majesty,” she tells him. “I have one of those faces.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully.

She casts her glance around the room in hopes of an escape route; seeing Koris beset by a gaggle of older women in high-necked gowns, she murmurs, “Excuse me, please, Your Majesty,” and darts away before he can call her back and ask her more uncomfortable questions.

She is stopped midway through the hall by a young man with a tray of wine glasses; she smiles and accepts one, and feels the whisper of a hand against her side. She whirls around, but there is no one directly behind her. When she smoothes her hand over her hip nervously, something crinkles in her pocket; she can feel a tiny roll of parchment where none was before. Even before withdrawing it to examine the contents, she _knows_ , and it is a struggle to maintain a nonchalant expression as she slowly makes her way towards the first poorly lit corner she can find.

_If you can get away, come upstairs._

It is brazen enough to border on insanity, and she tries once again to make him out in the crowd, but she cannot see a single familiar face now. The soft music picks up into the first waltz of the evening, and as the crowd shifts into couples, no one at all seems to be paying the slightest bit of attention to her. She edges her way along the wall until she reaches the door, and slips out.

The halls are deserted, lit softly with banked lanterns, and her footsteps seem very loud to her ears as she retraces her steps back to her suite. She cannot stop the flutter of nerves in her belly any more than she can stop the low simmer of irritation – he could easily get himself _killed_ doing this, and she does not want his death on her conscience – but even the threat of discovery doesn’t stop her from hurrying.

There is a servant kneeling by the chest under the window when she opens the door to the sitting room; her heart is in her throat when he rises and she realizes it is Anders, clean-shaven, with his hair pulled back in a neat tail. She closes the door behind her, leans against it. “Have I told you recently that you are mad?” she asks. Her voice is almost conversational; she can hardly recognize herself.

“It’s really amazing what people don’t notice as long as you look as though you know exactly what you are doing and have every right to be doing it. I look like every other underfed lackey in this place.” He has a beautiful smile, when it is genuine; she has no defense against it. Her heart begins to pound when he steps toward her. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. You were angry, the last time we spoke.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she tells him. “I’ve been worried sick. You are risking far too much by being here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he echoes. “I have risked more. I probably will again. I have a knack for it, I think. But…”

“Yes,” she says. He doesn’t need to say anything; she knows exactly what he is thinking of as he looks at her. Her hand trembles only slightly as she offers it to him; his eyes do not leave hers as he places a kiss on her palm.

“Let’s try this again,” he murmurs.

This time when he draws her to him, he is as gentle as she imagined he would be. The kiss is long, and slow, and her knees are more than a little weak when he pulls back. She searches his face, though she does not know what she is looking for. “I should…”

“Lock the door,” he suggests. Head spinning, she fumbles with the lock. It does not even occur to her to protest. The click of the bolt is unnaturally loud in the silence between them, and then she is back in his arms, and his hands are on her, and she is fumbling with the buttons of his livery jacket. She may not remember the steps to the waltz, but she knows this dance, the roundabout stumble which ends with her breathless collapse upon the couch, his lips and teeth wreaking havoc just under her ear, her hands gripping his hips as she arches up against him, desperate for contact.

“Well, well, turn your back for a moment, and just look what they get up to. They do grow up _so_ fast, don’t they?”

At the unexpected sound of the familiar voice, they spring apart, and although she is unquestionably flushed and short of breath, Bethany finds that astonishment leaves no room for embarrassment. Two women stand in the doorway, and they are most certainly the last people she expected to see, here or anywhere at all. “Wha…”

Amusement glitters in Isabela’s eyes. “Cat got your tongue, sweetness?”

Anders, who looks at least as bewildered as Bethany feels, finishes her sentence: “What are you doing here?”

“Well, not quite the warm welcome I expected.”

The pirate captain turns her amused gaze to her companion, who looks considerably less comfortable with the situation at large. “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawls. “They looked warm enough from where I was standing.”

Bethany’s vision blurs, and she knows there are tears in her eyes. Years of wondering, praying, and fearing the worst have culminated in this bizarre reunion, and although she cannot find the appropriate words for the situation, disheveled as she is, she can, and does, fling herself into her sister’s arms with something between a laugh and a sob.


	6. Can't Be Held Responsible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is irate, Isabela takes it all in stride, Justice is out of control, and Bethany has far too much to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a.... really ridiculous break, I am back to finish this thing. You may all thank [lordlings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lordlings), who helped me to iron out plot inconsistencies. I'm going to do my best to get this done before the end of March, even if it does give me ALL THE FEELS of the sad variety. This chapter is set-up, and then I believe there are 2-3 to go before this tale comes to a close. Ah well, at least Isabela can still make me laugh by making innuendos about vegetables.
> 
>  _"I can't be held responsible, 'cause she was touching her face,  
>  I won't be held responsible she fell in love in the first place,  
> For the life of me I cannot remember  
> What made us think that we were wise and we would never compromise,  
> For the life of me I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins..."_  
> -Jay Brennan, "The Freshmen"

It is strange, how years seem to melt away to nothing. She grips her sister tightly enough to cut off her air, and tears of relief spill from her eyes as a familiar, calloused hand strokes over her hair. It is as though she is once again a lost young girl; though she has, over time, developed a modicum of emotional stability, this last turn of events has utterly destroyed it.

“Oh,” her sister says, her voice falsely jovial, “I would not consider that, were I you.”

“I do not wish to intrude upon your family reunion.” Anders speaks softly, uncertainly.

“All things considered, you’re as much family as I am, it seems,” says Isabela; she at least sounds amused. “You might as well stay – two of the three of us are on your side-”

“Isabela.”

“Right, right,” Isabela says; Bethany imagines she is rolling her eyes. “This is all very serious. Not to worry. You will at least agree, Hawke, that we’re less likely to cause him permanent damage than the tin cans patrolling the halls.”

“Marginally,” Bethany’s sister says, after a pause that clearly implies she is considering it.

Bethany blinks away the tears and looks up at her sister’s changed face. Her skin is dark from sun exposure, and there are tiny laugh lines around her eyes; her smile is superficial, and her gaze is wary. Her hair is long and pulled back into a loose braid under a deep red scarf, and under a dark cloak her armor is light and unfamiliar. Only the pommel of her sword, sticking out over her shoulder, looks as it always has. She smells of salt and spice and leather. “You don’t need to protect me,” Bethany finally manages to say. “He didn’t...”

“Sneak in uninvited and compromise your unguarded virtue?” Isabela finishes. She is still smirking. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetness, she knows that. Anyone with eyes could see that you-”

“Isabela. Be quiet.”

“You don’t need to take it out on _me_ ,” Isabela says with a tiny pout. “Children grow up one way or another. Frankly, it took them long enough.”

“ _Isabela_.”

“I’m just _saying_.”

She hears the clanging of bells from the window, signaling the fact that time is passing; although the ball isn’t likely to be over for some time yet, it will not last forever. Bethany sighs and disentangles herself from her sister’s embrace; although she has no idea what to say, it is clear that she needs to say _something_. “I am… I cannot tell you how glad, to see you alive and well,” she finally ventures quietly, tucking her clothing back into some semblance of order, pointedly ignoring those pieces of it which already litter the floor. “But considering the state of things, not to mention just how frequently my room has been broken into lately…” Anders looks chagrinned, and she ignores this, too, though Isabela seems intrigued. “Why are you here? There is little treasure in Hossberg, and little anonymity.”

“Varric thought you might need a little assistance, sweetness,” Isabela says. “You know how Hawke worries; personally, I’m beginning to suspect you are much better at taking care of yourself than any of us ever gave you credit for.”

“Varric?” Bethany parrots, feeling stupider by the minute. “Why would Varric…”

“Meddling is Varric’s favorite pastime,” her sister says, sauntering over to the couch and settling squarely in the middle, as though to reinforce her disapproval of the activities previously taking place there; not that Bethany can truly blame her, all things considered, but it does make her decidedly uncomfortable. Anders looks at her, then settles on the chest halfway across the room, his gaze dropping to his lap; he still looks like he would much rather leave, and Bethany cannot entirely blame him, either. After a moment, Bethany perches on the edge of the couch and Isabela leans against the wall near the door.

For a long time, there is silence, then her sister sighs deeply and says, “Bethy, this question may be rather obtuse, but are you in trouble?” She spares Anders a glance and clarifies, “Not the kind we walked in on, either, though I can’t say as I approve; don’t fidget, Anders, we’ll get to you in a moment, believe me.”

“I can hardly wait,” Anders says with a deep sigh of his own.

“I am _not_ pregnant,” Bethany says before her mind catches up with her mouth; at her sister’s sharp intake of breath and Isabela’s incredulous laugh, she quickly clarifies: “Well, everyone _else_ seems to think so, and I’d rather get that out of the way first.”

“Good for you, sweetness,” Isabela says approvingly. “Babies are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Well,” Bethany’s sister says, giving her a bewildered look, “there’s one I _hadn’t_ thought of. I was rather more worried about the two kings and assorted nobles, not to mention the army on your doorstep and the very high price the Chantry has placed on my head. Then, of course, there is the half-naked man previously on your couch, whose head is even more expensive than mine in some circles. Silly me.”

“I am beginning to think that Varric was holding back some of the salient details,” Isabela says with a roll of her eyes. “He’s generally better at including the good stuff.”

“ _I_ think it’s time the four of us sat down and had a little chat,” Bethany’s sister says decisively.

***

When Bethany falls into bed that night, it is alone. She has only just extinguished her lantern when she hears Nathaniel enter the sitting room; though her eyes are closed in feigned slumber, she can sense his hesitation when he stops at the bedchamber door. Instead of entering, he walks away. She hears a door open and close – the second bedroom – and then there is silence. She lets out a breath she was unaware of holding.

 _We will find a way to remain unnoticed; don’t fret._ The presence of Anders is one thing, but this is something else again; she does not know what, if anything, she should say to Nathaniel about it. Her sister did not think to ask for her silence, and she knows that this is because she assumes the request is unnecessary; ordinarily, this would go without saying, but these circumstances are far from ordinary. The King of Ferelden most certainly knows who she is, and Nathaniel thinks better than she ever has in a crisis; his assistance could prove invaluable if she is questioned, but she is loath to burden him with yet another of her secrets. As it is, she wonders if she has leaned on him too much, trampling upon his kindness as she struggles to navigate the unfamiliar territory now before her.

She thinks, too, of Anders’ hands on her skin for those few brief and wonderful moments, of the fire in his eyes, of her own immediate and desperate reaction to him. Having nearly made peace with herself, she returns now to her questioning; surely two failed attempts are indicative of the worst idea she has ever had, but she cannot deny that she did not want to see him go, even if she understood the need for it. He did not look happy, either, though she supposes this could have more to do with being ushered out by Bethany’s less-than-friendly sister than with leaving her alone.

She does not dream, but only because she sleeps fitfully, waking every hour to the mournful tolling of the bells.

***

She rises at dawn, alone. The door to the bedchamber is still closed, and as she rises and peeks out into the sitting room, she can see that the door on the opposite side of the window is closed as well. She is ashamed to feel relief; she does not think, if she is honest with herself, that she is ready for a conversation with Nathaniel, even now. Evidently, he does not relish the thought of conversation with her, either; she knows that he must have noticed her early departure from the ball and made his own deductions.

She makes use of the bathing chamber adjacent to the suite of rooms, then dresses and spends a long time brushing her hair until it shines, just for something to pass the time. The palace is still quiet as a tomb; she supposes that the day after a grand ball must be used by nobles to recuperate and nurse heads sore from too much wine. Again, she is struck by the incongruity of it all – had things been different, this is the life she might have had, but now it just appears foreign and incomprehensible. Eventually, her restless feet take her into the hallway, which is deserted, and down the steps. It takes her some time to find the side gate, but when she does, the guards there do not comment as she exits the palace proper into the barren gardens, nodding a greeting as she passes.

Outside the walls, the city is awake; sleeping past dawn is a luxury ill-suited to the working folk of anyplace she has ever been. She wraps her cloak tightly around her to conceal her armor, and just that easily gains anonymity. She supposes it might be harder for someone like Jazek, whose size would give him away as a warrior no matter what he did, but she is only a woman in an uncommonly nice cloak – she gets a few curious looks, but mostly she is left to her own devices. She does not know where she is going, but knows it doesn’t really matter – she isn’t at all surprised when she crosses a busy market square and Isabela slips from around a corner to fall into step beside her – it was only a matter of time. “I had thought,” Bethany says, as softly as she can while still being heard, “that you were attempting to escape notice.”

“If you keep whispering like an informant in a bad novel, it isn’t going to help me any,” Isabela replies in a rather normal tone of voice. “Walk and talk, sweetness; we’re just two women, out on our daily shopping – are those meant to be radishes? They are rather sad, aren’t they?” She stops and fingers some wan-looking vegetables, ignoring the annoyed glare of the woman minding the stall. “Would you like some sad radishes for supper?”

“I’ve plans for supper,” Bethany says with a tiny moue of annoyance.

“As you should, sweetness,” Isabela says approvingly. Twining her arm through Bethany’s, she pulls her firmly toward the next stall, which appears to be selling bolts of thick but drab wool. “And rather tasty plans, at that, I must admit.”

“Isabela!” Bethany exclaims; after all these years, she has nearly forgotten how quickly anything – including sad radishes, it seems – can turn into innuendo.

“Only looking, sweetness, don’t worry,” Isabela says. “Your pretty boy and I have had our fun, and you don’t strike me as the type who likes to share.”

“And yet I’m contemplating _radishes_ from someone else’s garden,” Bethany mutters, running her hand over a length of wool which is not nearly soft enough by even her warrior’s standards.

Isabela laughs. Some things about her have changed, Bethany thinks, but not that laugh – it is bold and unrefined and boisterous. “That garden has stood untended for years, I would say, though it was grand once, I think,” she says with a wink. “Electrifying. Really quite a spectacle.”

“You’re horrible,” Bethany says, but she can’t help a giggle.

“Aren’t I, though?” Isabela says with apparent relish. “Come along, sweetness; shopping to do, gossip to share, and all that.” She pulls her along to the next stall, though Bethany can see now that sooner or later their path will lead to the mouth of what appears to be a small, dark alley. “Truth be told, I’m delighted to see you doing so well for yourself,” she says at length. “We’ve been worried.”

“If this is your notion of ‘well,’ I’m scared to ask what you consider the alternative,” Bethany mutters. “I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing.”

“Does anyone?” Isabela parries breezily. “Fortunately, I’m here to help you out.”

“The last time you tried to ‘help,’ Isabela, I barely got out of the Rose with my clothes intact,” Bethany responds. “It was not one of your finer moments.”

“Your sister never _has_ let me live that down,” Isabela says with a sigh. “Here we are.” She ducks into the alley, and Bethany has no choice but to follow, as Isabela still maintains an iron grip on her arm.

“Where are we going?”

“Really, sweetness, don’t you trust me?” Isabela queries, her voice dripping sincerity.

“Not entirely,” Bethany admits.

“There’s gratitude for you,” Isabela laments. “And after I had a row with Hawke about it for you, complete with the hurling of furniture across the room, by the way.” Isabela shrugs when Bethany gives her an incredulous look and says, “Well, a lamp. A small lamp. But it would be a better story if it were a table.”

“No wonder people think she’s a monster of inhuman strength, the way you and Varric go on about her,” Bethany sighs.

“She likes it,” Isabela replies lightly, and Bethany has to assume that she’s probably right. “And you, sweetness, are wasting your time out here talking to me when you should be taking this key,” she places it in Bethany’s hand and wraps her fingers around it, “and heading up the stairs to the second door on the left. It isn’t suppertime, but I have renewed hope for you; you’ll manage.”

Bethany knows her cheeks are scarlet as she takes it, and her protests are halfhearted at best. “Bela, you can’t just… I’m not… I have to _think_.”

“You weren’t bothered with _thinking_ last night; why would you start now? It’s a terrible waste of time, sweetness, and you’ll end up talking yourself out of all manner of things that are good for you. Believe me, every Hawke is an expert at that sort of thing.” Isabela grabs her shoulders with a firm grip and nudges her towards the door. “Up,” she says, her voice brooking no argument. “At least talk to the man; it’s the minimum you can do after I’ve talked Hawke out of running him out of town. And I'm not beyond dragging you up there myself, if you've taken it upon yourself to be silly _now_.” She gives Bethany another not-so-gentle push, and really there is nothing she can do but open the door and go up the stairs.

The building is quiet; she can only assume that Anders must be its sole occupant, and doesn’t spend much time pondering where or how Isabela got the key; such questions, she learned years ago, are pointless. The key turns in the lock smoothly, as though it has just been oiled, but before she can turn the knob, the door slams open, smacking hard against her arm and very nearly slamming into her nose; she jumps back defensively, a spell on her lips. Anders - no, Justice - is in the doorway, glowing with fury, crackling with power, his eyes vacant and blue. She doesn’t scream – she once might have screamed, but she has seen such horrible things, and she knows that her only choice is to _survive_ – but she does raise her hands, pushing her power against his fury, against the blue glow, against gravity itself until even he falls to his knees under the force of it. She watches as the glow recedes, as his face goes slack in something like confusion tinged with increasing horror, as a trickle of blood emerges from his nose and his hands begin to shake. The power flees from her grasp, and then there is only silence, and his harsh breathing, and the rapid hammering of her heart as she looks down at him. She thinks for a moment that it might have been better if Isabela had taken it upon herself to drag her up here after all; right about now, she would laugh it off, as though nothing of consequence has happened, maybe say, _well, this is awkward_ , or perhaps, _down, boy._ But Isabela is not here, and Bethany is not good at being glib, at laughing things off so as to avoid dealing with them, so she says only, “You’re bleeding.”

“I...” he says, looking up at her, his eyes widening, the confusion now lost in the horror. “So are you. I am so sorry, I... I heard footsteps in the hallway, and...” She looks down at her hand – scraped across the knuckles by the door, raw and red but ultimately inconsequential, hardly worth his distress, but then, it is not really the scrape that is distressing him, and she understands it; had she been slower, had he been further gone, it is entirely possible he might have killed her right here in the hallway of this abandoned building, just as it is equally possible that she might have killed him to prevent it; a Grey Warden does not remain alive long without a well-honed survival instinct and quick reflexes. “You never hear Isabela coming,” he continues, an explanation she has not asked him to provide. “And Hawke made it _quite_ clear last night that she’d really rather not see me again for the rest of her life.” Then, with self-loathing so thick she thinks she could reach out and touch it, he mirrors her earlier thoughts, says, “I could have killed you.”

“I could have done the same,” she tells him. This knowledge is something both of them will have to live with. She runs her other hand over her scraped knuckles; a trickle of power, a soft green glow, and they are unmarred, but she does not say, _no harm done_ , because it is far from being true.

He does not heal his own hurt, only wipes at the blood with his sleeve. “You should go,” he says at length, his tone soft, defeated. “I don’t... Hawke is right, as always. I should never have come.”

“This is not my sister’s unfinished business to conclude,” Bethany snaps. “And you are a bit late in heeding her counsel now.”

“I _hurt_ you!” Anders exclaims, clambering to his feet at last.

“Justice hurt me,” Bethany corrects. “And I stopped him.”

“I _am_ Justice.” His jaw is set, just as his mind clearly is; she is certain that if he trusted himself to touch her right now, he would push her towards the stairs much as Isabela had done. Perhaps because she is very tired of being told what to do, of being pushed one way then another, she simply ducks around him into the small, bare room, flooded with winter sunlight, and perches on the edge of the bed, because it is the only piece of furniture in the room and out of the line of sight of anyone who might happen to pass the window below. “What are you doing?” he demands.

“Getting out of the hallway,” she says, in her most sensible, no-nonsense tone of voice. “Close the door.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“Are you throwing me out?” she demands.

He closes the door and leans against it, as far away from her as he can be while still in the same room. She notices that he, too, avoids the square of sunlight painted across the worn wooden floor; she is not the only one, it seems, who instinctively avoids passing glances and windows.

“If you wish to go,” she says at length, “I cannot deny that it might be best for you. I came here with half a mind toward trying to convince you to leave before someone sees you.”

“It would be best for _you_ ,” Anders tells her.

She thinks of Nathaniel then, of his kind, earnest face as he asked her, _how many choices can you honestly say you have been allowed to make for yourself?_ Even her mistakes have been chosen for her, for good or ill. “Come here,” she tells him instead of answering. When he crosses the room with slow, unwilling steps, she tugs his wrist until he sits beside her, then runs her fingers over his forehead, his nose and upper lip. There is no serious damage to be healed, and the bleeding has already stopped, but she wipes away the headache which would otherwise linger for the next several days. “You’ll live,” she tells him. “And so will I, such a life as this is, until the Calling comes for us, or the war, or a lucky darkspawn arrow. Go, if you wish it, but do not do it for my sake. Maker knows it is foolish of me, but you are my mistake to choose now,” she adds sadly.

It seems as though all of the tension goes out of his body at once, and he drops his head to her shoulder, and she wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek on his hair and closing her eyes. “If I were a better man,” he says, “I _would_ go. But I think it's far too late now to try to be a better man.”

“Then perhaps,” Bethany tells him, “simply be yourself. We both already know that I will forgive you.”

And she presses her lips against his temple and Isabela turns out to be right – although she does not know what she is doing, it doesn't matter, and she does manage, and in the way of all inevitable things, it is overwhelming and nothing like she expects, but as she traces her hands over his scars in the late morning sunlight, as she allows him to run his fingers through her hair and down the curve of her back, as she meets his eyes, brown flecked with gold and with awe, she is filled to overflowing with too many things, and none of them are regret.


End file.
